


Yellow-Gray

by DaScribbla



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: 1.4, Dancing, F/M, I don't even know what this is honestly, I was just really disappointed that we never got to see them dance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 20:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10446789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaScribbla/pseuds/DaScribbla
Summary: Henry had asked her for a dance earlier in the day, and he was fairly sure that she had not forgotten, for he’d caught her gaze flitting in his direction several times that evening already — nervously, like a child waiting for the right moment to steal a treat from the kitchen.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedFlagsAndDiamonds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/gifts).



> Sometimes you just gotta write something, you know? I have honestly no clue what this is, but here.
> 
> Happy birthday, RedFlags.

Tending to the wounded was one thing, making small talk at a Union ball quite another, and Henry was already beginning to feel the familiar pull toward the door and, by extension, bed. He was quite close to the quartet that had been hired for the evening, and the pitchiness of the violin in his left ear was proving as irritating as the whining of mosquitos. He felt horrifically out of his depth. Soothing the anxieties of a dying soldier was not easy work, but at least the soldier didn’t expect him to show teeth and make compliments. Besides, he wasn’t much use to anyone in the way of conversation; his eyes kept straying to Emma Green as she swept across the polished floor on the blue arm of a Union soldier. 

He had asked her for a dance earlier in the day, and he was fairly sure that she had not forgotten, for he’d caught her gaze flitting in his direction several times that evening already — nervously, like a child waiting for the right moment to steal a treat from the kitchen. 

Her eyes again, flashing black-brown-gold in the rosy light. He looked away. It was understandable, perhaps, why she was avoiding him. Dancing with Union soldiers, all of them more or less anonymous, was the expectation when she was hostess. Dancing with a man of the cloth — a _Union_ man — who was known to both her and the community carried more weight. 

It was for that reason that he did not approach her when the dance ended and told himself sternly not to be disappointed when she did not go to him. The quartet took up a new tune, the violin pitchy as ever, and Emma and her soldier danced once more. Candlelight gleamed on her teeth when she laughed, and she laughed often. Henry felt the ghost of a smile pulling at his own mouth. 

He stood there against the wall for three, four more tunes, each one making him feel more and more like Sister Isabella in the midst of an amputation: eager to help, but squeamish about proceeding. The quartet struck a final note at last. Henry watched the soldiers make their excuses and their protests a second time to the girls — they were so unalike, the one small and golden as a miniature sun, the other willowy and chestnut dark — and take their leave. Emma’s eyes drifted to him once again, and at last, she was vacating the floor, but it was to join her mother at the far end of the room. Mrs. Green murmured something to her with a smile so wide and sincere that it could only have been false. Several other guests were already taking their leave; it was late. 

And then — oh God, here she came, inevitable as Judgment Day. No matter how blasphemous it may have been, at that moment, Henry couldn’t quite convince himself that the Rapture would be quite as sweet as Emma Green in her sage ballgown, face framed by her dark curls as she drifted over to join him by the window. She would make a man quite happy, he thought but pushed the thought away. Marriage was a foolish thing to think of during wartime, and especially in a context such as theirs. _Theirs._

“I believe you asked for a dance earlier today, Chaplain,” she said. “I hope that request still stands.”

“It does,” he managed.

She gave him a smile, different from the wide ones she’d thrown to the soldiers all evening. This one was fleeting, fragile, like a brief glimpse of sun during a cloudburst. 

“I’m afraid you’ve been waiting rather a long time,” she said. “Why, I don’t think I’ve seen you so much as budge from this spot!”

They shared a laugh. Henry found that he would not, could not look at her when she laughed, particularly when she was in such proximity. His shoes were quite dusty in comparison to the floor. Her perfume smelled of roses. 

“Well?” Emma said when the silence had stretched beyond a minute. “Shall we just stand? Or is this a chaplain’s idea of dancing?”

He laughed again, more at ease this time, and took the hand she offered. “We’re not another line of beings, Miss Green,” he said. “Even chaplains dance.” Her fingers were delicate against his palm, and their slight weight reminded him of when he was a boy of nine and had just found a bird’s nest in the tree outside his home. His mother carefully placing one of the chicks in his hand, telling him not to squeeze too hard. 

There were calluses on her hands as well, he noticed. Not as pronounced as those he noticed on the hands of the soldiers, of course, and not like those of the other nurses, but they were there and would only grow and thicken with time. He imagined she treated them each night before sleep, trying to retain the softness that refused to stay. 

“Chaplain Hopkins,” she was saying, teasing him. “The evening is slipping through our fingers, and you still have not defended your argument.”

“Of course, my apologies.” But he hadn’t taken as much as a step before a familiar voice sounded, and they were joined by Mrs. Green herself, who laid a firm hand on Emma’s shoulder. Emma’s fingers twisted neatly out of his, leaving only a faint memory of their touch. 

“Emma, darling, your sister was looking for you,” Mrs. Green said. “She’s downstairs.” Henry did not miss the intensity of the looks the two women exchanged, but their significance was lost on him. 

Emma dropped her gaze first. “Of course, Mamma.” To Henry, she added, “My apologies, Chaplain. It seems you’ll have to make good on that some other time.” And she was gone, just another figure who melted into the crowd and disappeared down the staircase into another room, joining another conversation that he would never hear.

But Mrs. Green was speaking. 

“So many fine soldiers here tonight, wouldn’t you say, Chaplain?” He nodded dutifully and made noises of agreement. “What a pity we couldn’t show them our boys,” she added. “But I suppose their absence speaks for them. _Our_ boys are off risking their lives. And what do _they_ do but consume our brandy, invade our homes, and dance with our daughters?”

“You have quite a burden, Mrs. Green, and I daresay that you bear it admirably,” Henry said diplomatically. Mrs. Green gave him a thin-lipped smile. She reached out and touched his arm.

“My girls were promised to good Southern men long before all this began, Chaplain,” she said, now in a tone that clearly meant for him alone. “And now, with these Yankees everywhere… Well. I would hate to think that one of them would take advantage of our circumstances and attempt to upset plans that have been in motion since long before they were ever here.”

Henry took her meaning and saw no point in feigning obliviousness. “Mrs. Green,” he began, “I assure you that there is no —”

“I know my girls very well,” she said meaningfully. “I can read them like nobody else. And I know danger when I see it.”

Unsure of how to respond, Henry looked away and said nothing. Truthfully, he was quite aware of the danger; his feelings for Emma he treated with the sort of care usually reserved for loaded rifles. But when such warnings came from her mother, he felt a foolish and petty desire to flagrantly disobey. 

But that was how wars began.

“I understand,” he said with dignity. He made his compliments to her handiwork on the evening and took his leave. 

 

He could smell rain on the air even by the time he stepped into the foyer of the house. He would have to make a quick journey home before the storm broke. 

“Chaplain!” 

He turned to see her hurrying downstairs toward him, the usual grace with which ladies of her status moved abandoned; her skirts all but bounced as she skipped the final step and joined him before the open front door. 

“I wanted to apologize,” she said, “for never dancing with you this evening. Believe me,” she added earnestly, “had things been otherwise…”

“I understand,” Henry said, not entirely sure that he did. 

“I expect my mother laid down the law once she banished me,” she said.

“I’m afraid so.” 

“You’ll have to prove it to me some other time.” She reached up as if to adjust the hang of a curl, but she faltered, lowered her hand, and curled her fingers together instead. “That you dance.”

Henry smiled. “I should never be more pleased to prove anything.” Emma looked away as though meeting his eyes was suddenly impossible, her cheeks coloring a lovely pink. “I apologize if,” he began, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“You should go,” she murmured. “But I appreciate it,” she added. “What you said. Thank you for coming tonight. Once again, I’m very sorry.”

He shook his head, told her not to worry. But he’d not taken ten steps from the door when she called from the threshold, “Chaplain!” He turned, one hand on the brim of his hat.

“Miss Green.”

“I’m _very_ glad that you came,” she said. “Very glad.”

“We barely spoke,” he noted. 

She smiled, showing her teeth, and didn’t meet his eyes. “I know. But you stayed so long…”

“We’ll dance next time.”

“I’d like that very much.” 

There seemed nothing more to be said. Henry gave her a nod, turned, and headed down the street for his lodgings. Even as the first, fat drops landed on his shoulders and his hat, he was aware of her eyes on his back. Despite the downpour, he paused on the corner of the street to look back and found that she was still on the steps watching him, the open door behind her casting a beam of yellow light into the gray storm.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr @williamshakennotstirred if you want to hit me up. It's about .01% Mercy Street, but hey, I'm totally willing to chat about it!


End file.
